


Last of His Line

by indevan



Series: A Matter of Trust [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2570393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indevan/pseuds/indevan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian Cousland's always been the lazy, babied black sheep of the family but circumstances and coming war begin to shape him differently.  A.K.A. how this punk survived his origin story without Duncan there to bail his ass out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last of His Line

It was far from being a strange morning at his family’s ancestral home.  Ian awoke as he always did and bid the woman he had spent last night with farewell before stumbling towards the bath in his room.  Meat, as always, was at the end of his bed and yipped a greeting as he poured the bucket of magically clean water over his head.  It fizzed as it ran down his face and body in rivulets and he shuddered, having never gotten used to the bubbling sensation.

“Mornin’, boy,” he said with a yawn as he toweled himself off.

Meat danced around his feet as Ian tugged on a pair of leather trousers and a sleeveless tunic.  Around the time of his fifteenth year he more or less stopped wearing sleeves.  Highever was as warm as Ferelden got and, besides, he was sick of tasking his mother and the various servants with letting out the shoulders and seams of his tunics since he grew so fast.  Despite that growth and despite the fact that he was six and a half feet tall, Ian was the runt of the Cousland family: the shortest and smallest member in three generations.

He tugged on a pair of boots and strapped on his wrist guards.  Meat nosed at his crotch and Ian shoved him away.

“Naughty dog,” he said with a laugh. “Take after me, don’t you?”

Had he received Meat at a later date, he probably would have given the dog a different name but he had been ten when the Mabari pup chose him.  He had been ten and hungry and when his mother asked what he wanted to name the dog, he had misheard her and thought she asked what he wanted to eat and so he had answered, “meat.”

“My Lord?”

Ian glanced up to see that a servant had appeared in his chambers.  He scowled despite himself.  He hated being referred to as Lord Ian.  It made him sound responsible for something when he was nothing but a spare and that was how he liked it.  He had no intention nor desire to ever be Teryn and was grateful every day that he was born second.

“Yes?” he asked, keeping his tone light.  It wasn’t the servant’s fault, after all, that he had this ridiculous title.

“Your father would like to see you in the main hall.” He bowed and left the doorway.

Ian sighed and ran a mental checklist of his activities for the past couple of days and tried to think what he could be in trouble for.  His father usually let his pranks and lax behavior slide but he knew that his childhood was over.  He would be twenty next year and an adult in the eyes of his family.  He scratched Meat behind the ears.

“Go on, boy.  I’ll find you later.”

Meat gave a yip and darted out the door.  Reluctantly, he left his room and trudged to the main hall.  Inside, he found his father and Arl Howe.  The Arl smiled at him and Ian smiled back as best he could.  He never particularly liked Howe, even though he had grown up calling him Uncle Rendon.  Something about him always seemed false.  His father turned and smiled warmly and it eased him slightly.  Maybe he wasn’t in trouble after all.

“Ah, good morning, pup!”

Ian’s smile turned genuine at the affectionate nickname.  If he could be called that by everyone as opposed to Lord, he would be happy.

“Good morning, father.”

“Good morning, Lord Ian.”

He cringed and said, “Good morning, Uncle Rendon.”

Howe’s eyes ran up and down his body as if sizing him up.  Ian usually enjoyed having people stare at him but something about the Arl’s gaze made him squirm.

“My daughter Delilah has been asking after you,” he said finally. “Shall I bring her along next time?”

“To what end?” Ian asked before he could stop himself.

He had met Howe’s daughter when she had last been at the castle.  She was a few years older than him and Ian had been perhaps eleven.  He also had been splashing in mud puddles and she had wrinkled her nose and said that he was a baby who smelled.  He knew, though, that Howe had been sniffing around having them betrothed to one another since Ian was born.

“Like I said, old friend.  No one tells my fierce boy what to do,” his father said with a laugh, slinging an arm around Ian’s shoulders.

Howe scrutinized him with beady eyes.

“Yes.  You have raised quite the independent child...so I hear people say from Denerim to Gwaren...”

His father faltered for a moment. “Well...let it never be said that my boy isn’t friendly.”

Ian folded his arms over his chest and met Howe’s gaze.

“Father,” he said, still eyeing their guest. “Why did you call me here?  Not to discuss my sex life, I assume.”

“Right.”

He slid his arm from his shoulders and turned towards him.  At once, Ian was no longer looking at his father but at Teryn Bryce Cousland.  He straightened his back and let his arms drop from their crossed position.

“Your brother is leaving for Ostagar today.  Howe and I shall leave in the morn when his men arrive--they’ve been delayed.  While we are gone, you are to mind the castle.”

Ian pressed his fist to his heart in understanding.  He had already argued with his father about going along with him and Fergus to Ostagar the previous afternoon to no avail.  He knew his responsibility but couldn’t hide the niggling suspicion that it was because he wasn’t a warrior.  Ian was dreadful with a sword.  When his training began, no one was aware that he led with his left hand and so he was unable to perform the simplest sword forms and each practice ended with him hurling the blade across the training field and storming off in tears.  It wasn’t until his mother saw him writing during one of Aldous’s lessons did she realize the truth but by then the damage had been done when it came to swordwork.  She instead taught him her own style of archery, which he took to immediately.

Archery, though, was not really a favorable fighting style of Fereldan nobles.  Even Teryn Loghain, the Hero of River Dane, switched to predominantly using a sword despite his bow and arrow beginnings.  His father never would say it aloud but Ian often felt that he was an embarrassment to the family not only because of his preferred fighting style but because of his actions.  He used to never give a second thought to how many people he took to bed or how awful his table manners were but now that he was beginning to be seen as an adult and not the Teryn’s baby son--Fergus had ten years on him--his status as the family’s black sheep was becoming steadily more obvious.

“Yes, father.”

His father reached out and brushed some of Ian’s hair from his face.

“There’s a good lad.  Fergus should be in his chambers.  You ought to tell him to go on ahead of us this afternoon.  And be sure to say your farewells.”

He smiled crookedly.

“This your way of getting rid of me?”

He braced his hand on the back of Ian’s neck and pulled him close to he could tilt his head down and kiss his forehead.

“Very clever, my boy.  I don’t know why you’d want to stay, though.  It’s just us talking strategy.”

 _For a fight I won’t even be in,_ he finished in his head.

He struck his fist to his chest once more and left the main hall.  His boots making heavy footfalls on the stone floor, Ian directed himself to the kitchen.  He was hungry but that wasn’t anything new.  He was always some degree of hungry at all times.  Since Fergus wasn’t due to leave until the afternoon, he saw no trouble in getting himself something to eat first before bidding his brother farewell.

“My Lord!”

He cringed at the all too familiar voice and turned round to see a form familiar to him from childhood.  Ser Gilmore stood before him in that way of his that signaled that he never outgrew his adolescent awkwardness--at least he seemed to be that way around Ian--and smiled in a pained manner.  Ian liked him well enough.  He was strong, smart, and loyal.  Still, he was a stickler for formality and no matter how many times Ian begged him to refer to him by his given name, he still used titles.

“Hey,” he said, tilting his hand to the side in a laconic greeting. “What’s the good word?”

His eyes darted to the side awkwardly as he cleared his throat.

“Well, uh, my Lord...Nan has requested your presence in the kitchens.  It seems that Meat is up to no good...”

Ian nodded, not really seeing the issue.  Then again, Meat and Nan were in a constant struggle with one another.  They had been since Ian left the nursery and she stopped scolding him all the time and moved on to his dog.

“I better go collect him, then.”

Ser Gilmore still stood awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head with his hand.  Ian raised his eyebrows.

“Yes?”

“Well, uh, she asked that I...accompany you.”

“Of course.  Come on, then.”

Ser Gilmore followed him, his steps stilted and abrupt.

“You alright?” he asked, turning his head over his shoulder.

“Fine, my lord.”

He smiled thinly and Ian cocked a brow in confusion.

“You sound it...”

He laughed, a forced and awkward sound, and Ian rolled his eyes.  He turned back around and sighed.  He suspected that Ser Gilmore perhaps had a burgeoning crush on him and had no clue what to do about it.  Had he been anyone else, Ian would have made a move but Gilmore was his family’s trusted head of the Guard.  Too many servants had left after they had a dalliance with Ian and his mother had scolded him more than once for chasing away perfectly good people.  If Ser Gilmore quit, he would never hear the end of it.

It didn’t help that he wasn’t particularly attracted to Ser Gilmore.  Oh, he wouldn’t kick him out of bed, but Gilmore--back when Ian had called him Rory--had always been obscenely overprotective of him.  It was as though his parents had informed him to keep an almost obsessive eye on Ian since he was born.  Even Nan was never that bad.

“You’re gonna be helping me run this place, yeah?” he asked in an attempt to make conversation.

Ser Gilmore nodded but his gaze was fixed on the buckles of his armor.  Ian had hoped his mother would be around to take the reins but a friend of hers was visiting and she would be leaving with her for several weeks.  That bothered him the most.  Not just because she would run the place better than he could but he didn’t want her to leave.  It was juvenile and immature but his mother rarely went anywhere without him.  From the time he was born, he had been her little shadow and that had only intensified when she had begun to teach him archery.

“I will do my best, my Lord.”

Ian wished to say more but they had reached the kitchens.  Before he even opened the door, he could hear Nan screeching at the servants.  He knew that tone and pitch of her voice well from childhood.  Theatrically, he threw the door open and strode into the room.

“Nan!” he exclaimed. “How goes it?”

She whirled around, her beration of the servants forgotten.  He saw their shoulders slump as they let out dual sighs of relief.

“You,” she said, eyes narrowed to slits. “Your blasted hound has gotten himself in the larder again.  I wonder who taught him to do that.”

“Wonder who it was.” Ian smiled and did his best to look innocent.  There had been many a times when he was too young for family parties and instead of staying in the nursery as he was supposed to, he snuck into the larder and ate food that was meant for the banquet.  Truthfully, Meat had figured out how to get in by himself but Nan never believed that.

She sighed and shook her head.  Reaching forward, she put her hand under his chin and pinched his cheeks between her fingers and thumb.

“What am I going to do with you, child?”

Ian took a step back, freeing himself.

“Let me go get my dog, I reckon.”

\--

As it had turned out, Meat hadn’t been sneaking bites of roast from the larder and had been alerted to the presence of giant rats that Gilmore claimed came up from the Wilds.  As he told him that and how his grandfather always warned him about them back on the farm where he was born, the awkwardness had gone away for a moment.  Then, he seemed to remember who he was talking to and got strange again.  Now, Ian’s companion was his dog and the conversation was a lot less stilted but a bit more one-sided.

As he rounded the corner that led up to the wing where they all slept, he paused.  His mother was with her friend in the center of the hallway but with her were two others.  He knew the woman as Lady Landra, one of his mother’s closest friends.  The redhead with her was her son who Ian had met in passing though his name escaped him.  Another was a pretty elven woman with long blond hair.  His mother turned and smiled when she noticed him.

“Pup, come here.  Say hello.”

Dutifully, Ian walked up the slight incline in their castle’s floor to join them.  Immediately, he felt eyes on him from the son and the woman.

“You remember Lady Landra, don’t you, darling?”

He grinned and said, “Wasn’t she the drunk one from your salon last spring?”

His mother rolled her eyes skyward and sighed. “As you can see, my pup is known for his tact and diplomacy.”

Lady Landra, to her credit, chuckled and said, “Well it was a wonderful salon.”

“If you remember any of it mother,” her son said.  That got attention on him and he smiled at Ian. “Hello.  I’m Dairren.  I’m not sure if you remember me…”

That was the name.

“How could I forget?” he said, smiling back.  It wasn’t entirely a lie.  He remembered his face, at least.

“And this is my lady-in-waiting, Iona.” Lady Landra gestured to the elven woman.

Iona curtsied and smiled politely.

“I have heard much about you, my Lord.”

Lady Landra chortled and gestured towards her in such a way that made Ian wonder if she was a little tipsy now.

“I believe, Eleanor, that Iona may have a little crush.”

“My lady!” Her cheeks went bright red.

Feeling for her, Ian smiled politely.  Dairren sighed as if this were not a rare occurrence and gently took his mother’s arm.

“Why don’t we unwind in the study before dinner.” He flicked his gaze to Ian and added, “I shall see you at dinner?”

He nodded. “Definitely.”

The trio left and Ian let his eyes land squarely on Dairren’s backside and how it moved in his hose.  He was brought back to reality by a sharp yank on his ear.

“Ow!”

He turned back to face his mother and rubbed the sore orifice, adopting a sad expression.

“Not now, pup,” she said, smirking a bit.

Her expression grew more serious and she reached out to brush his hair from his eyes.

“I trust you spoke with your father.”

He nodded. “Yeah.  I was on my way to see Fergus off…”

He decided not to mention his sudden decision to make a detour into the study.

“I wish you were staying,” he blurted.

His mother’s gaze softened and she brought her hand out to cup his face.

“You’ll be fine, pup.  You are better at this than you think you are--than anyone thinks you are.”

He smiled a bit.  His mother was always the one encouraging him even when everyone talked about his age or his behavior.

“I guess.”

She cupped his chin and tilted his face down towards her.  Tears gathered in the corner of his eyes and that surprised him.  He used to wonder sometimes, when he was little, if looking at him upset her.  He had been told that his upturned nose and wide mouth were from her side of the family despite the presence of neither on her features.  As were his green eyes and olive complexion.  Her brother who had died during the rebellion had looked like him, many said.  His uncle Iain for whom he was named and who he never met.  She never showed it, though, if it did.

“My sweet boy,” she said, voice wavering. “You’re growing up.”

He didn’t know how to reply to that.

“Go see your brother,” she said and then frowned. “I love you--you know that, yes?”

He wondered what brought that on.

“I love you, too, mother.  But why bring it up?”

She shook her head and laughed.

“Just...a bad feeling.  Like I won’t be able to tell you it again.”

Sometimes, she got “feelings.”  Ian believed that she had a little bit of magic.  One time a guest was rude to her at a banquet and she said that she hoped she had her baby in the bathhouse.  Lo and behold, months later, the woman went into labor in her bathhouse at her estate.

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you tonight at dinner, mother.”

He turned and walked back down the stone ramp, Meat at his heels.

“Pup...Fergus’s room is up here.” She arched her brows and then shook her head. “Go on, darling.”

Ian grinned and turned towards where the study lay.  The only downside to his destination was that to get to his father’s study, he had to pass through the family library.  That wasn’t what was dreary--he was no scholar but he enjoyed reading--it was that his old tutor Aldous was in there, croaking away at the new squires.  He was in no mood to be drawn in to talk about his family’s history so he ran quickly into the study, nearly slamming the door on Meat’s stump of a tail as he dashed in.  Both Iona and Dairren looked up, surprised, at his sudden entrance.

“Hi, hello.  I wanted to make sure you were settling in.” He smiled widely, slipping back into his easygoing manner.

Dairren held a book and looked at him curiously over it.  Ian swallowed and ran a hand through his hair.  This was the easy part.  He sauntered towards him, keeping his gait casual while forward.  It was an uneasy line to tread but Ian had figured out how to walk it years ago.  He rose up to Dairren and smiled.  Lifting one finger, he pushed the book down a little and stared into his eyes.

“Whatcha reading?”

The other man’s gaze went blank and twitched, lifting up the book a little as if to show him.

“You...your family has an amazing library.”

“It’s my grandfather’s.” That didn’t sound right but Ian wasn’t really a scholar. “I like to read, though.”

That wasn’t a lie.  While historical texts like the ones Aldous made him pore over were exhausting, he liked reading on its own.

“Your grandfather was a great man.  I’ve heard many a tale about him.”

Ian nodded.  He knew very little about Grandfather Ardal.  Only his mother’s father, the dreaded Elihue from whom he received his middle name, had been alive during his childhood.  He always abhorred the days he would come to the castle.  The way he would nitpick everything he did and grunt and growl about how he wasn’t a proper representation of that side of the family.  Fergus never received that treatment but due to the fact that he looked like a Cousland, Grandfather Elihue mostly just ignored him.

“Same,” was all he said. “So...enough about my grandfather and his books.  Why don’t we talk about me?”

He smiled and lowered his eyelids so he was looking at Dairren through his lashes.  From the other side of the study, he heard Iona chuckle.  Dairren looked at him, the book forgotten and Ian reckoned he was already in there.  He sometimes wondered why he did this so much--the sex thing--but he truly did enjoy it more than most things.

“What about you?” Dairren’s voice had lowered a couple of registers.

“What have you heard about me?”

His reputation, at least, was well known.  It was well known across Ferelden that his body was simply an overly large life support system for his prick.

“I’ve heard talk amongst the nobles that you’re actually favored over your brother to become Teryn.”

Ian faltered.  That was not something he expected.  Furthermore, the idea of ruling anything sent a chill down his spine.

“What else?” He decided just to ignore that comment.  Also, he highly doubted it to be true.  He was the black sheep baby son.  He was not future Teryn material.

“You are...very handsome.”

Better.  A marked improvement.  Still, he was out of time.

“I have to see my brother off.” Ian cocked his head to the side and added, “Come by my room tonight?  After dinner?”

Dairren smiled.

“I’ll be there.”

\--

“Uncle!”

The moment Ian entered his brother’s chambers, a small form launched itself at him.  He caught his nephew nimbly around the middle and spun him about.

“Ah, look.  My little brother to see me off.  Dry those eyes, darling.”

He smiled at the familiar booming voice of his brother.  Despite the lengthy age difference, he and Fergus had always been close.  He stilled and settled Oren on his shoulders.

“Should I take Oren outside and let you two say goodbye in private?”

Fergus clucked his tongue at him.

“You’ll understand when you have someone, pup.”

“Pfft, I have people.”

“Someone--not a tussle in the hay.”

Oriana slapped his arm and made an indignant sound.  Oren leaned down over Ian’s head.

“You play in the hay too, uncle?  Mama won’t let me no more.”

“Anymore,” Oriana corrected him absently.

“Father sent me with a message,” he said.  He lifted Oren up from off his shoulders and placed him on the ground. “You’re to leave without him.”

At that, Fergus’s brows rose.

“So Howe’s men are truly delayed.  As he wishes, I suppose.” He grinned. “I’ll just carve up a few of those beasties before father arrives.”

Oriana sighed.

“Fergus, please.  Take this seriously.”

In turn, his brother grinned and drew her in for a kiss.  Oriana made a show of resisting but there was a smile on her face.  It was distant, though, and kind of sad as though she already missed him.

“Blech,” Oren said, wrinkling his nose.

“You said it,” Ian agreed.

Fergus simply waggled his eyebrows in response.  If he planned to say anything more, it was cut off by a new arrival.

“Leaving without saying good-bye, my son?”

Having found one another, their parents strode into the room.  Mother showered his face with kisses as though he were still a child and said that if he didn’t come back safe, she would kill him herself.  Father clapped his shoulder and wished him well.  It seemed to be a rush and then farewells were over.  Fergus gave Oriana one last kiss and a final hug to Oren before turning to go.  At the last moment, he turned and put his hand on Ian’s arm.

“Have fun watching the castle,” he said teasingly.

\--

It wasn’t long after he went to bed when there was a knock at the door.  Meat, already asleep on the rug next to his bed, grumbled a bit and rolled over.  Ian rose and made sure a smirk was on his face as he opened the door.  Dairren stood on the other side, his eyes wide as if this was an act he was not used to committing and maybe that was true.

“My Lord,” he said at a whisper.

Ian moved aside a step and gestured to the bed.

“Come in.”

He did and once the door was closed and the clothes were gone, Dairren seemed to relax.  He was talented, that was for sure.  Ian had had many (many, many) people in his bed--or the larder or anywhere convenient--over the years and could tell that Dairren was skilled.  He could most certainly work his tongue.  They worked with and against one another for some time before the moment was ruined by Meat.

Ian felt a bit betrayed when the Mabari leapt to his feet and began barking frantically at the door.  Usually he was a bit more considerate when his master was mid-coitus.  The barking seemed to draw Dairren out of the mood as well and he retracted himself from Ian’s embrace.

“What do you think it is?” he asked.  He kicked back the duvet and got to his feet.

Ian thought of the rats from earlier but shook his head.  Reluctantly, he followed Dairren so they were flanking the dog near the door.

“Dunno.  Meat--here boy.”

The dog ignored him and continued barking at the door.  He was now bent low in the front, his lips curled back from his teeth.  Ian twisted his mouth to the side.  Something most certainly was the matter.

“I s’pose we should see.”

Dairren nodded and reached forward to open the door.  The moment he did, an arrow came whizzing into the room.  It pierced his chest and his eyes went wide.  Before he could try to recover, another one joined it.  Blood bloomed from the wounds and dripped down his abdomen.  Dairren collapsed onto the ground, his eyes staring blankly upwards.  Ian stared at the body for a long moment, unsure what he was seeing.  A third arrow whizzed by his face.  Ian leapt back.  Meat lunged through the doorway, already attacking the assailant.

Ian turned back and looked down at Dairren.  He waited for him to rise and rub his chest and wonder why Ian seemed to think random attacks were a fun sex game.  The loud shouts outside his bedroom extinguished the thought from his head and he realized two things: Dairren was dead and the castle was under attack.

Going to the chest near the door, he fetched his knives.  Leaning against it was his bow and a quiver full of arrows.  Deciding that was enough for now--he would bother with clothes when he had time--he leapt into the fray.  Meat was handling himself well.  The men who had attacked seemed surprised at the newcomer and it seemed to have nothing to do with his nudity.

“We got the wrong one,” someone shouted.

“Shoulda known there’d be another--it’s the youngest, after all.”

Not wanting to hear another word, Ian filled both speakers with arrows.  Meat took care of the rest.  As he pried them from where they punctured the men, he began putting the scene together in his head.  Whoever attacked expected him to open the door and not Dairren.  That meant that Dairren’s death was soundly his fault for inviting him to bed in the first place.  Ian grabbed an arrow firmly by the shaft and pulled up.  The action caused the corpse to move on its side and he made out a symbol etched into the man’s leathers: a bear.  His confusion cleared into white hot fury.  Howe.  These were Howe’s men.

“Delayed my ass,” he growled.  The hand clutching the arrow clenched tighter.

He heard the sound of a door opening and whirled around, body tense.  His mother ran in, bedecked in battle leathers and wielding a deadly-looking longbow.  Despite it all, Ian’s eyes went wide and his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Pup!” she cried. “Are you alright?”

He opened his mouth to speak but words got crammed in his throat.  Finally, he managed to blurt something out.

“They killed Dairren!”

For a moment, his mother’s brow knit in confusion.

“Lady Landra’s son?  Why was he--oh, pup.”

Ian hung his head in shame.  He thought with his prick, yet again, and now someone was dead.

“Get dressed,” she told him, straightening up.

“Those were Howe’s men.”

His mother paused and then a look of hatred flickered onto her face.

“That rat bastard.”

She followed him to his room and Ian tried not to look at Dairren’s still form as he began putting on his smalls.

“Where’s father?” he asked as he pulled a linen shirt on over his head.

His mother’s back was to him as she kept an arrow trained on the door should more men enter.

“He didn’t come to bed last night.  He said he had strategies to go--” The arrow wavered. “He was with Howe.”

Ian buckled himself into his leathers and stepped back into the hall.

“Then we should hurry.”

His mother began to nod but stopped in the midst of the motion.

“Oren and Oriana,” she said suddenly.

It was then that Ian’s thoughts began moving slowly.  He saw himself rush to the room and saw himself open the door but it felt as though it had been slowed down such as through magic.  He opened the door and saw their bodies.  Oriana’s was thrown over Oren’s in a telling way that showed she had died protecting him.  Ian dropped to his knees, staring at Oren’s unmoving face.  He registered his mother’s crying but his mind had not caught up to his body yet.

“Oren, Oren, my little Oren…”

His mind cleared, caught up, and he began shaking in rage.  He was going to kill Howe’s men and then hunt that rat down and kill him himself.

\--

Howe had planned this well.  Fergus was gone and that meant that the bulk of Highever’s forces were gone.  Ian was livid.  Aldous, Nan, the squires, they were all killed.  For what?  What did Howe have to gain?  Father wasn’t in the great hall and that worried him.  Ser Gilmore had been and had kicked them out while he guarded the door.

“Escape through the servant’s entrance,” he’d said, eyes misting a bit. “My Lord, my Lady...I’m sorry.”

The apology rang in Ian’s ears as he continued running.  Meat was at his heels and his mother at his side.  It was too much.  His mind could not process it all at once.  Too much.  Too much.

And then they were in the larder where his father lay in a puddle of blood.  He was alive but barely.

“Bryce!” His mother knelt at his side, clutching his hand in hers.

“Howe…” he mumbled. “Stabbed...gone…”

“Shh, shh--Bryce, it’s alright.  We’re here.”

Ian kept his eyes on the closed door.  How long would they be safe here?

“We need to go,” he said. “Once we’re out, we can get father to a healer.”

His parents exchanged a look and it was one knew it well.  It was the pitying look they’d shared when another servant quit because of him or if he made a scene of himself in the streets of town due to inebriation.

“What?”

His father drew in a shaky breath that ended in a cough.

“Pup...I’m not going to make it.  Not to a healer.  Not anywhere.” He clutched at the wound in his middle and gazed up at them with glazed eyes. “You both have to go.”

“No.”

Ian exhaled.  His mother saw how foolish it was.  Father was alive; there was no reason to give up hope.

“I won’t leave you, darling.”

His chest immediately tightened.

“What?” he blurted. “You can’t be serious!  We--we have to get out of here!  We have to--”

“Pup,” his father interjected.  He seemed to be trying his hardest to speak. “You have to get out of here.  You have to find your brother, warn him...tell the King...Howe’s betrayal…”

Ian squeezed his eyes shut and balled his fists.

“Tell him yourself!”

“My darling boy, please.”

He shook his head.  No.  This wasn’t fair.

“I’m not leaving you both just to die.”

He felt a cold hand grab his arm and it made his eyes shoot back open.

“Ian,” his father said, voice steady. “You and your brother are the last of the Couslands.  You have to live.  You have to tell the King.  You have to...avenge us.”

His body began quaking and he felt tears well up in his eyes.  His mother rose to her feet and pulled him into an embrace.

“Go, my darling,” she whispered. “There isn’t much time.”

“I…”

He drew in a deep breath.  He had to do it.  He whistled for Meat and started towards the passageway in the back of the larder.  As he left, he could hear his parents saying good-bye to one another.

\--

Dawn came and with it mist, blurring out the pinkening sky and hovering over the ground.  From a distance, the castle looked peaceful.  The fires were out and the stink of death wasn’t yet fermenting in the air.  Howe’s men were gone, leaving only a token force to dispose of the bodies and clean it up for the Arl’s return.  Every one of them was satisfied with a job well done.

None of them noticed the figure in the tree on the castle’s west side.

The tree had been Ian’s refuge when he was younger to escape punishment from Nan for doing something he shouldn’t.  The boughs were strong, still strong enough to support him now that he was grown.  He clung to the trunk and watched them leave.  At the foot of the tree, Meat sat.  Every now and then he would rise and mark the tree but mostly he kept his sharp, dark eyes trained on the men as well.  When they were gone, Ian hopped down from the tree and landed next to his dog.  He crouched down and took Meat’s chin in one hand.

“I need you to go south, boy,” he said. “To Ostagar.  Find Fergus for me.”

Meat whimpered, his dog-brows rising in what was a semblance of concern.

“Don’t give me that.  Go find him.” He stared back at the castle.

The family blade was still within its walls and he had a mind to retrieve it despite his ghastly abilities with a sword.  More than that, Howe’s men were still inside.  They were probably drinking ale from the larder, eating their food, wearing his father’s clothes.  Gloating over their victory and rubbing their hands together in delight over whatever reward Howe and whoever would be backing him would offer to them.

“Go on, boy,” he said, still looking at the castle. “I have work to do here.”

 


End file.
